


Last Tea

by SelanPike



Category: MS Paint Adventures, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 16:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SelanPike/pseuds/SelanPike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are Diamonds Droog and you are standing in a white room. You can’t see a light source, but nonetheless it is very bright. There’s a table in the middle of the room, and another door lies beyond it. There is a small pink teapot on the table, as well as two matching teacups, a bowl of sugar and a milk pitcher. There are two seats. A dark figure sidles up next to you. You look over to see not a face staring at you, but a bare skull. Somehow you are not surprised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Tea

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A storyboard thing](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/5925) by CuestickGenius. 



> Also inspired by some headcanons about PI and Death that Path posted on Tumblr!

            You’re disoriented as you stumble through a door. You have the feeling like you should be in pain, you’re supposed to be in a horrible lot of pain, but you aren’t and you can’t imagine why you think you should be. You try to remember where you are and how you got there. You can pick out images, but everything’s blurry. It’s as though you just woke from a vivid dream and you’re desperately trying to recall its events.

            You are Diamonds Droog and you are standing in a white room. You can’t see a light source, but nonetheless it is very bright. There’s a table in the middle of the room, and another door lies beyond it. There is a small pink teapot on the table, as well as two matching teacups, a bowl of sugar and a milk pitcher. There are two seats. A dark figure sidles up next to you. You look over to see not a face staring at you, but a bare skull. Somehow you are not surprised.

            Something in that bone structure strikes you as familiar.

            “I assume that you’re Death,” you say. There’s no point in denying the obvious.

            Death nods.

            “Which would mean that I’m dead.” The images in your head become clearer. Quarters, Matchsticks. An ambush, a minigun, cold asphalt. Hurried footsteps coming closer. You can’t make out the rest.

            Death nods again, twice this time. He grips his scythe with bony hands, then uses it to motion toward the table. You step forward in a daze and sit in one of the chairs. Something is nagging at you and you can’t quite place it. It’s not the whole being dead thing. It’s something else, something obvious…

            Death walks to the table, and his unsteady gait is as familiar as his skull. It finally strikes you once he asks if you’d like some tea. His voice doesn’t come from himself, but rather echoes through your ears from the inside, clear as tinnitus. It is Pickle Inspector’s voice.

            You almost jolt out of your chair at the shock, but you don’t. Even in death you are a man of self-control. You accept the teacup he offers you, put it on the table in front of you and then say simply: “Inspector.”

            That voice rings in your ears as he shakes his head. “I—I understand that it’s normal to be confused.” He sips his tea. You don’t know how a skeleton manages to consume fluids. “Have you met him?”

            “Of course I have,” you say, feeling increasingly frustrated. It’s not often that you’re this bewildered and you don’t like it. “And you’re—“

            “No,” Death says. “I’m not Pickle Inspector.”

            You cross that off your list of possible explanations and move on to the next one. “So then, I assume that your form and voice changes based on the last person your guest saw while alive?”

            You don’t know why you said that specifically. Inspector wasn’t the last person you saw, was he? You were out with the Crew. You were at the docks, just you and the Crew, when Quarters and Matchsticks came out of nowhere and…

            You can’t shake the image of Inspector’s face, hunched over you, tears in his eyes.

            Death shakes his head again. “No. That—it’s a very good guess though. Very clever. I take it you two get along wonderfully.” Death leans back in his chair, and you swear you can see the hint of a smile on his face. “He’s very clever, that Pickle Inspector. Very good with puzzles. He solved that one.” He jerks a thumb at a giant cube floating some distance away. It wasn’t there before, you’re sure of it. You squint and realize it’s covered in Sudoku puzzles. “Isn’t it beautiful? Gosh, I could stare at it all day.”

            “Yes,” you say. You don’t mean it. “But let’s not.”

            “Oh, okay,” Death takes a cube of sugar from the bowl and drops it in his tea. His scythe reshapes itself into a spoon and he stirs. “Well, see, the truth of it is, ah, I’m something like a reflection of Pickle Inspector? If that makes sense.”

            “It doesn’t.” You finally take a sip of your tea. Dear god it’s delicious. It’s even better than Inspector’s brew. You didn’t think that was possible. You try not to react, but you’re afraid your eyebrows may have lifted a bit.

            Thankfully he doesn’t notice your show of emotion, as he’s resting his head in his hand, head tilted upwards in thought. “Well, you see, it’s like… my form is dictated by the collective subconscious of the universe.”

            “And the universe is subconsciously thinking about Inspector?”

            He nods, not realizing your incredulity. “Yes! Well, no. Sort of? Ah, um, a part of him created this universe. Other parts of him became all the matter in the universe. So um, your planet is Pickle Inspector. The stars are Pickle Inspector. _You_ are Pickle Inspector.” He finishes his tea and then pours himself some more before topping off your own cup. “Pickle Inspector is the one thing that everything else has in common. Thus his presence in the subconscious of everything in the universe, and thus my form.”

            “I see,” you say.

            “Does that make sense?” Death asks. “I—I can draw diagrams if it will help.”

            “No, that’s quite all right,” you say.

            “Oh, okay.” Death waits for a moment, long enough to make a subject change seem a little less unnatural. “The door behind me leads to the afterlife. You’ll have to pass through it.”

            You look at the door. You hate to admit it, but there is a distinct feeling of dread building up in your gut. You wonder what Slick is going to do without you. Kill everyone, you suppose. Maybe he’ll kill Snowman. Deuce will be inconsolable. Boxcars will probably wreck up the headquarters. No, not just headquarters. He’ll wreck up everything. Not to mention their heists will be a mess once you’re not there to get shit done while they fuck around.

            You should’ve seen that ambush coming. That burning trashcan was a dead giveaway. You got careless and now everything’s fucked.

            You remember Pickle Inspector. Shit. He was following you, wasn’t he? He’s always following you. He always seems to know when you and the Crew are planning your crimes. It used to amuse you, but now you wish he’d just stayed away. You didn’t want him to see that. Better for him to find out later, once they’ve cleaned up your corpse a bit. Once they put you in a clean suit.

            You did not want him to see you die.

            You put the teacup down. You need the support of the table to keep your hands from shaking.

            “It’s all right,” Death says. “You can wait until you’re ready. I’ll wait with you.”

            “Thank you,” you say. You resent this man. This… this impostor, mimicking your Inspector. He doesn’t even have the mannerisms right. His stutter isn’t the same. He’s too focused. He doesn’t wring his hands or pull at his clothes. What a poor facsimile.

            Pickle Inspector said something to you. In that blurry image you can see his mouth moving. His lips don’t form the syllables you expect, he doesn’t say he loves you and he doesn’t beg you not to go.

            Death glances to the side, then back at you. “Ah… perhaps… would you like to play a board game?”

            _“Challenge him to a game,”_ he said. _“P-please, Droog, listen… he’ll let you leave if you win.”_

            You lift the teacup again. Your hands do not shake.

            “Allow me to make a proposition,” you say.

—

            You return to life with a gasp. You sputter and cough as your lungs try to adjust to working again after having already given up. You shiver and grab the closest person to you. It’s Inspector. He feels warmer than he’s ever been, and you curl up into him as your cold body slowly reboots, stagnant blood pumping once again. You hope everyone misinterprets your moment of physical weakness as an expression of intimacy. You figure that’s a little less shameful.

            As feeling returns you realize that you’re in horrible pain. You figure Death must have done something to help, otherwise you couldn’t have come back at all. Probably patched up your organs and maybe put more blood in you, but you’re still full of holes. Boxcars grabs you—they must have dispatched the Felt because all the Crew is standing around you—and lifts you, rushing towards the car. Good old Boxcars. He may be dumb, but he’s good in a crisis. He’ll make sure you get fixed up before you die again. You hear Slick and Deuce talking about something, but you’re only tenuously clinging to consciousness and the words pass through your brain and leave without bothering to impart their meaning. Soon you’re in the car, lying down. Your upper half is on Boxcars’ lap. He presses something onto your wounds to slow the bleeding. You’re pretty sure it’s Slick’s jacket. Your legs are draped over Inspector’s lap. Slick’s driving and Deuce looks back at you from the front seat, concern on his pudgy face.

            Inspector takes your hand.

            “He says hello,” you manage.

            He smiles through his tears. “Did… did you try the tea?”

            “Yours is better.”

            He chuckles. “I-It’s rude to lie, Mister Droog.”

            Boxcars tells you both to shut up. He says you’re too weak to be talking. Inspector apologizes even though you’re the one who started it. You close your eyes. You can’t stay awake any longer, but that’s okay. You drift off to sleep feeling confident that you’ll wake up from this one.


End file.
